


nameless bodies in unremembered rooms

by telekinetics



Category: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Genre: F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Intrusive Thoughts, all of the ep22 stuff kinda pitched up to 10, frank talk of past suicide, implied child sexual abuse, mild derealization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29179695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinetics/pseuds/telekinetics
Summary: She lays in that hospital bed for hours, eyes wide open. And, like she’s done her entire life, she wonders:did that really happen to me?
Relationships: Ayanami Rei/Souryuu Asuka Langley, Gen - Relationship, Horaki Hikari/Souryuu Asuka Langley, Ikari Shinji & Souryuu Asuka Langley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	nameless bodies in unremembered rooms

**Author's Note:**

> To clarify a few things:  
> \- this fic makes the assumption that Asuka is a csa survivor but repressed it, bc that's sort of just how she's always read to me. So just wanna reiterate that obv its gonna talk ab that + all the general fucked up Asuka backstory stuff / the violation of her mind that is treated like allegorical sexual abuse in ep22, so please click out if that has the potential to be triggering.  
> \- it's vaguely canon compliant, but gets particularly messy near the end. Obv instrumentality is supposed 2 start happening directly after Kaworu dies but 4 the sake of this let's just pretend that they, like, get a second 2 process shit.  
> \- this is the original show's timeline <3 I hate End of Evangelion <3  
> \- I borrow a lot of lines from the sub/dub transcripts. I play around with some, but a lot are just the direct dialogue, like when the Angel first starts invading Asuka's head  
> \- title is from Werewolf Gimmick by The Mountain Goats

1.

As a child, Asuka never plays with dolls. 

Instead, Asuka draws, and does puzzles, and reads. But Asuka does not play with dolls. She tries once, with some old, sorry raggedy Ann, but the movements are stilted. When she tries to give voice to the character, it comes out hushed, clinically unsure. So, she looks around to make sure she isn’t being watched. (She never is.) Then, she shoves the doll in a drawer, and climbs a tree. 

You’ll have to forgive our Asuka for being nauseated, embarrassed, chronically ashamed. Earnestness is not something she ever taught herself to stomach. Unlike most unbearably lonely children, she doesn’t have an imaginary friend, either. There is a sort of vulnerability that comes with that brand of playing pretend.

 _Pathetic_ , she thinks, once she is old enough to name the discomfort, but not yet old enough to understand it. _It is pathetic to pretend to love something that cannot pretend to love you back._

“Asuka,” her mother says, and despite years of conditioning, Asuka hungrily lifts her small head. But her mother isn’t talking to her. She knew she wouldn’t be. She hasn’t spoken to Asuka directly in years. 

Asuka watches her mother stroke the doll’s hair. Asuka watches her mother cradle the doll in her arms. Asuka watches her mother murmur/sing/laugh like a cathedral bell into the doll’s ears. The same scene, over and over again, with meaningless variations, put in place to emphasize how insignificant the little girl watching it all play out is. And the whole time, the doll faces just a little off to the side, with its button eyes looking straight at and through Asuka. Like everybody does. 

Asuka grits her teeth. The crayon in her hand breaks in two. She feels a scream locked inside her, and she doesn’t know where the key is. She stares at the doll. The doll stares back.

It doesn’t see her. 

_Pathetic_ , she writes in bright, bold, orange block letters. _Pathetic_ , she outlines in neon yellow. _Pathetic_ , she colors in with blood red. _Pathetic_ , she rips up over and over and over again, until the paper has turned to snow on the wooden floors. _Pathetic_ , she thinks, and her ears are ringing, and the caged scream is ready for the prison-break, and she’s on all fours, poised to howl. A big, animal roar. She’ll grow fangs sharp enough to rip flesh, and scream so loud, and nobody will be able to ignore her, and she would ravage them if they did. She opens her mouth:

“Mommy.” She cries, instead, and her voice breaks. 

_Pathetic_ , she thinks, as her mother kisses the doll’s brow. 

2.

Her father doesn’t ever acknowledge her, but he doesn’t ever acknowledge the doll, either. At least, she thinks he doesn’t. 

Sometimes, Asuka has dreams that try to disprove that. 

Sometimes, Asuka has dreams where her father touches the doll. 

There’s little she can do about that, because she doesn’t remember it happening, and what would it matter if it did? It’s just a toy. It’s just her father. Still, it’s the same every time: wake up shaking, sometimes vomit, go about the rest of the day like it didn’t happen—maybe it didn’t maybe, maybe, maybe—and fall asleep praying that you don’t dream.

She doesn’t realize, since it’s so far removed from the concept in her head—

But Asuka Langley Soryu is a prodigy at playing pretend. It’s her blood and veins, after all.

3.

She remembers the hospital, but, more importantly, she remembers the conversation her father and her shiny future stepmom have, as she watches her mother lose her mind on the sterile sheets.

_A doll mother and a doll daughter. Maybe, there is very little difference between humans and dolls._

Asuka doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cover her ears. 

_Dolls are made by humans in their own image. If God really exists, we might just be dolls to him._

Her father seems incredulous at these words, but there’s something in his tone that makes Asuka’s chest tighten. She hears footsteps, a chuckle. They’re in the next room, but the door is open. They’ll do that sometimes. They’ll leave the door open. Like there’s nobody else in the house—hospital—where is she right now?

 _Yes, I am a doctor_ , her future stepmother says, _But I am still a human. And a woman first._

Her mother is dying. 

She hears the sounds of clothes rustling.

Her mother is dying, and nobody wants to look at her directly. Her mother is dying, and her and Asuka are just the same. Her father would rather—there’s a word she overheard, and later looked up, that encompasses all the many things she feels she will not be grown up until she understands—her father would rather do that, than pay attention. 

She hears the sounds of lips smacking together. Her mother chooses that moment to kiss the doll’s forehead, almost as if she knows, but Asuka knows she doesn’t know at all. Yet, her brain can’t quite separate the instances. She wipes her own forehead, even though she hasn’t been touched. She thinks she hasn’t been touched. She couldn’t have been.

But Asuka always feels dirty.

4.

The day after her mother’s funeral, Asuka has her first kiss. 

It’s on the kickball field. She doesn’t even remember the boy’s name. She only remembers that his lips are dry and his breath stinks. She tells him as much. The boy bursts into tears and runs away. 

Asuka resists the urge to rub her mouth and the kiss away. After all, first kisses are a once in a lifetime deal. She’s irritated that she wasted it on such a useless kid, but those ahead of the curve carry the burden of figuring it out as they go along. She should be proud of herself, she thinks, so she chooses to be that, instead. She slathers on her chapstick, and goes to tell her classmates all about it. 

But, oh. The field is empty. The class is empty. The school is empty. She can hear them talking, whispering, shouting, laughing. But the room is empty. 

Where is she?

5.

“What’s frustrating about Mr. Kaji,” she tells Hikari, soon after they become friends, “Is that he feels such a need to be so proper all the time!”

“Really?” The skin between Hikari’s eyebrows wrinkles, just a little. Her nose scrunches too, although her mouth stays politely quirked. _I’m listening_ , her expression says. _Keep going._ Asuka inhales. Asuka exhales. “But the way you’ve described him before. . . He seems so, I don’t know—laid back.”

“Well, he is,” Asuka jumps in, quick as lightning. “It’s sort of his whole image. But he’s still a professional! So, obviously, he feels bogged down by stupid rules and regulations. He wants to be an adult.”

“Right.” Hikari nods, wide-eyed. Her brows soften, but traces of a crinkle still remain. Asuka wants to smooth it over, like clay. She bites the inside of her cheek. Hard. 

“What he doesn’t get is that _I’m_ an adult.” Asuka preens. “And the heart wants what it wants.”

“And you want him?” Hikari tilts her head to the side, bushy pigtails swaying alongside her. From the classroom window, the afternoon sun envelops Hikari in a pale glow. She’s giggling—Asuka could never for the life of her figure out how to do that as lightly as the other girls, so she hates giggling on principle, but maybe it’s alright if Hikari does it—and chewing on her lip, to keep it from overflowing into laughter. 

“What?” Asuka demands, barbed wire sprouting from her skin. She’s not looking at Hikari’s lips, until she is, until she’s not. She bites down harder. “What’s so funny?”

“Asuka, he’s so _old_.” Hikari bemoans, and her heart drops; Hikari thinks she’s immature, Hikari thinks she isn’t cool or smart or pretty enough to date a real man like Kaji, Hikari thinks she isn’t enough of a girl to— 

“Yo, Class Rep!” Toji winks, Shinji and Kensuke in tow, and Hikari immediately flushes. “What’s on the agenda for today?” 

And lo and behold, within seconds, all the work Asuka put into getting Hikari’s unconditional attention is undone. Because of some stupid, childish _boy_. Toji, of all people. What did Hikari see in him? He was hardly anything interesting. What could someone as special as Hikari—special as far as non-pilots go, of course—possibly find alluring about a guy like Toji?

She doesn’t realize she’s glaring, face hot, knuckles clenched, until she catches Shinji’s eyes on her, and whips around to face him. Shinji flinches. Of course he does. He steps back instinctively, and Asuka hates him for it. But she takes the small victory regardless. Not that those are hard to get when you’re playing against Shinji Ikari. _He makes it so easy,_ she thinks, furious, _To be cruel._

“What are you staring at!” She growls, after a second. Shinji stammers over his response, body tensing up even as his face contorts in irritation. 

It’s too familiar. It bores her. She tunes out. 

6.

She hates Shinji. She hates Shinji from the second she catches him: hiding behind meekness, hiding behind passivity, hiding behind insecurity, hiding, hiding, hiding, all Stupid Shinji knows how to do is hide. Hide from daddy. Hide from the world. 

What pisses Asuka off the most is that he isn’t even good at it. Every inch of him is soaked in desperation. His eyes are hungry. And he has a spine—that’s the worst part. He bends over backward to make himself palatable, but Asuka can see who he would be, if he didn’t. Asuka can see it so clearly: it’s in his gritted teeth, it’s in the white knuckles of his fist, it’s in the look he gets sometimes, when he’s bubbling with rage so potent it turns him from boy to lightning. It’s in the way his voice sounds when he talks about his father. 

Shinji Ikari could be a live wire. If she’s in one of her more honest moods, she can admit that with his battle stats, Shinji Ikari could rule the world. Or, at least, be the center of it for a few glorious moments—isn’t that the same thing, really? 

And, God, she knows he’d love it. Everyone falling over themselves to praise him. Yet, here he is, fucking _hiding._ It ticks her off more than anything else—she could wipe the floor with Shinji all day, but if he just let himself try, he could actually provide her with formidable motivation and competition. Even the strongest of warriors need a less powerful rival to train against. But, no. Shinji insists on retreating into his armadillo shell, Shinji insists on playing dead, and, sometimes, he dares to expect the same from her. 

Joke’s on him: Asuka Langley Soryu doesn’t hide from anything or anybody. Including—and especially— Shinji Ikari. 

7\. 

“Please, look at me.” Asuka cries, grabbing onto Kaji’s shoulders and shaking them, trying to tug him closer as she straddles him. 

Kaji isn’t even fazed. His head stays looking up at the stars, a tiredness to the lines on his skin that makes Asuka’s heart beat a mile a minute— _he’s tired of me. He’s done with me. How can he be through with me so easily? How can I be used up when he hasn’t even used me? Use me, use me, use me use usemeusemeuse m e_ —

“Asuka,” He says, and his voice is soft, lined with padding, like she’s a baby, like she’s fucking insane, “You’re still a child. Those things can wait.”

_You’re still a child._

Her breathing grows erratic. How could he?

_You’re still a child._

Was she a child? No, she couldn’t have been—her mother replaced her with felt and cloth because she’d grown up too fast, she was too smart, too ahead of the pack, too beautiful, and not a child at all. Especially not now! She was an Eva pilot. She was a hero. She was a savior. She was the center of the fucking universe, but everybody was so obsessed with their own fucking corner of the world that they couldn’t even begin to see her, burning brighter and hotter and more mighty than all the explosive, apocalyptic destruction of the Second Impact combined.

_You’re still a child._

See, Mr. Kaji doesn’t understand. Mr. Kaji doesn’t know that Asuka never, ever played with dolls.

_Those things can wait._

My mother was dying in a hospital room while my father fucked her doctor. Look me in the eye, Kaji, look at me—look at me—and tell me those things can wait. Those things can wait, and good little Asuka Langley Soryu should wait, too—it is surprisingly naive of you. To think that those things can wait. You have to be lying to me. You have to think I’m disgusting, or worthless, or crazy, crazy like they said my mother was crazy, breastfeeding a puppet— _killing_ a puppet, like she tried to kill me—me, Asuka—or was Asuka the puppet?—then who am I?—I am Asuka, but I was not my mother’s Asuka—so whose am I?

_You’re still a child. Those things can wait._

When, when, when has that ever mattered before?

“Can’t you see I’m already grown up?” Asuka rips the top buttons of her shirt open, and she feels static everywhere, electrical currents buzzing all around her, she feels like anybody who touches her will die—and yet, there Kaji is, and he doesn’t fucking care at all. “Look at me! I’m a grown up, I’m a grown up, just look, look at me, I’m a grown up, Mr. Kaji, I’m grown, I’m— _LOOK AT ME.”_

He doesn’t.

7.5. 

When she’s laying in her room at Misato’s apartment, many months later, Asuka will recognize this as an objectively good thing, and she will stare emptily at the ceiling, bargaining with the chipped paint, as if a makeshift deity could somehow make her want something normal.

8.

Sometimes, Asuka wonders whether she forced that boy to kiss her on the kickball field. Whether she pressed her lips to his with no warning or grace. Whether she grabbed him and pushed him back and didn’t let him get up. Whether he was a real boy, or a plastic doll. Whether it happened at all. 

She thinks about this as she pinches together Shinji’s nose and leans in to kiss him. _There’s a violence to me_ , she realizes, as the rubbery feeling of Shinji against her mouth makes her want to hurt him. _And I am scared of it._

She knows why she does it. It’s the same reason she does anything, when it comes to Shinji—he pisses her off. He’s so eager to kiss her, touch her, look at her— _and why shouldn’t he be?_ She hears herself thinking, even as the thought makes her feel lightheaded and naked—and the second she offered herself up on a silver platter, Shinji took it. It’s too easy. He always shows his whole hand too early and she’s sick of it. And his breath does actually tickle. So, she grabs his nose, hard, as hard as she bites her cheek when she sees Hikari’s pretty smile, and presses her lips against his. For what feels like eternity, she stands there, waiting for him to wriggle out of her grasp and shove her off and scream, so she can laugh at him for not being able to handle her, for not being able to be a Real Man, and they won’t talk for the rest of the day, and Asuka will go to bed and wonder whether her mother believed she could feel the doll breathing, and whether she hung her because the sound was as grating as this. 

But. . . Shinji doesn’t do any of those things. 

Five seconds pass. Ten seconds. Asuka starts to get annoyed. _Stupid Shinji. Why aren’t you moving?_

Fifteen. Twenty. She can feel him struggling, his goddamn knees wobbling, but still he remains loyally pressed against her. He just lets her. He just lets her. Something panicky and foreign—yet, so, so familiar—starts to build in Asuka’s chest, a wretched, winged thing. _Stop me. Please, stop me._

Thirty seconds, close to forty, and he’s really reaching his limit now, his whole body shaking, his throat making odd little strangled noises, and Asuka is so angry at him for not kissing back or pulling away, and terrified that she’ll kill him right now if he lets her—terrified that he would let her—and the horrid creature in her body pecks at her skin, so she pinches his nose tighter, because maybe if it hurts he’ll do something about it. And that’s when the thought collides against her, like Eva into Angels— _Am I forcing him to kiss me?_ —and memories of dreams and dolls and hands over her own mouth, bite marks from where she tried not to scream, they all start flooding back, and she doesn’t know if it’s real, she’s never known if it’s real, all she knows is that she only ever taught herself to take hold of the limelight, and not to step out of it, so if someone doesn’t stop her right now, she will kill Shinji Ikari if she has to. 

Like an actor egregiously late for his cute, Shinji pulls back, gasping for air, his eyes bugged out and lined with tears, and Asuka bolts to the bathroom and feels vomit rise up in her throat as she listens to him wheeze—pathetic, pathetic, _pathetic_ —and she doesn’t even notice she’s crying. She’s too busy swallowing the bile down.

Then, when she gargles water and brushes her teeth, she says that it’s Shinji’s fault for leaving such an awful taste in her mouth.

And she means it.

9\. 

Her hatred for Shinji is different from her hatred for the First.

She’s ever vigilant around the First. She doesn’t trust the First. She thinks of the First as the embodiment of everything Asuka Langley Soryu stands against. 

She’s sitting on Kaji’s desk, waiting for him to get back, aimlessly kicking her legs. Bored out of her mind. Bored, bored, bored. Asuka gets bored a lot. She’s too damn interesting for her own good. And her company sucks. 

She starts fiddling with a file, using it to fan herself, before her curiosity gives in and she opens it, and—

She scowls. It’s the First Child’s file, because of course it is. Asuka smooths it out on her legs, rolling her eyes even as she’s leaning in eagerly to look. The picture is what stands out the most, as is the point of any file or resume—Asuka’s own records are perfect, not a hair out of place, a carefully curated expression that she’d spent hours practicing in the mirror, and it paid off. 

The First’s is nothing like that. Although, Asuka supposes that’s certainly true to who the First is, which is nothing and nobody. 

Still, she can’t pull her eyes away from the image: she gets stuck on the pale blue hair, framing the First’s face just so, dipping down halfway to her small nose; a sharp chin pointed slightly downwards, casting shadows over her porcelain face; off-putting scarlet eyes looking up at her through thin eyelashes; her mouth sitting in a firm, stoic line. 

Asuka runs her thumb along the words beside the picture, along the First’s name. _Ayanami, Rei. Ayanami, Rei. Ayanami, Rei._ She mouths it. _A-ya-na-mi. Rei._

Her finger traces the lines of the First’s silhouette, her nail emphasizing the places where the First’s hair slopes into her cheekbones, or pokes out of her ear. She touches it all, until her skin makes contact with the First’s collarbone, and she pulls her hand away, fast, like she’s been shocked. She looks around, defensive. She doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. There’s no one there. 

_Ayanami, Rei._

“She’s almost pretty.” She says, to nobody. She brings the paper closer to her face, frowning down at the glossy photo. She _is_ pretty. But it’s a kind of pretty that would scare Asuka, if Asuka were scared of anything. Ayana—The First is the kind of pretty that Asuka would warn a man against. Yeah. The kind of pretty where you’re scared of what she becomes when you look away, or blink. A haunting and haunted fickle mirage of a girl, captivating like the moon. 

“Fuck the moon,” Asuka mutters, harsh as hellfire. “I’d hate to be the fucking moon.”

Asuka is the sun. Where the First is eerie, and weird, and dark—Asuka is ferocious, radiant, a force of nature beyond any other. The beginning of everything. They’d all die without the sun, and they all would die without her. She'll make it everybody’s business to know as much. 

Still. Sometimes Asuka gets the sense that people don’t like looking at her directly. Maybe that’s why nobody ever does. You can’t look directly at the sun, after all. You need sunglasses. 

“Okay. So buy sunglasses.” She hisses, gripping the paper so tight, it starts to fray. 

Her eyes focus on Rei’s picture again. It’s hard to see—she realizes how close she's brought the file to her face. She can feel her own hot breath brought back to her. Like she’s breathing flames. She can picture Ayanami, Rei and her picture melting away, dripping off the paper and onto the floor, onto Asuka’s skin like wax. She moves her mouth closer to the picture, and exhales. 

She thinks about the boy and the kickball field. She thinks about shoving her chest in Kaji’s face underneath the eyes of angels. She thinks about kissing Shinji, and nearly killing him. 

She thinks about Hikari’s appeasing eyes, and her demure smile, and how she leans into Asuka whenever they talk, like they’re conspiring, like Asuka’s the only thing she can see, and something inside of her aches. 

Then she thinks about the First, and it’s too much, it’s overwhelming, so she presses her lips against Rei’s picture, more gentle than she’s ever been with anything in her life, or, at least, more gentle than she's ever been since she found her mother hanging from a noose in their dusty room. She closes her eyes, and imagines she’s kissing Rei, and she can almost feel her hair tickling her cheek, and her cold hands hesitant on Asuka’s own furnace palms—after all, Asuka doubts Ayanami’s been kissed, she’d have to guide her through it—and their noses would probably bump together, and Asuka would say something mean, and Rei wouldn’t react, because Rei never reacts, because Rei is, is, inhuman, alien, a marionette, a puppet, a _doll_ —

Asuka throws the file to the other side of the room, pushing herself further onto Kaji’s desk and pulling her legs up. She presses her mouth against her knees, eyes wide, rocking back and forth. 

From across the room, those eyes and that name stay as constant as her uncontrollable, traitorous heartbeat: Ayanami, Rei. Ayanami, Rei. Ayanami, Rei. 

10.

Something about fighting in an Eva feels safe. Unit-02 is big and flashy and blood-red, and Asuka feels at home in the LCL. She’s good at it, too. She deserves more recognition. Fame. But that doesn’t matter when she’s in the thick of it, taking down Angels. Asuka could live in that feeling—having the entire world on her shoulders. It means every eye is on Unit-02. Every eye is on her. 

She thinks, maybe, that if the world was different, she would have been an actress. But she has her EVA, so it doesn’t really matter. It’s kind of the same end result, anyway. 

Something about fighting in the EVA feels safe. So, of course, that security, that comfort is eventually stolen from her, too. 

10.3

— _How’s Asuka?_

_— Dangerous situation. The mind contamination broke into the borderline._

_— No! No! Don’t enter me! Ouch! No! DON’T! DON’T LOOK IN MY HEAD! PLEASE! DON’T INVADE MY MIND ANYMORE!_

_— Her psychograph is at the critical point._

_— Her mental circuit is now getting damaged terribly. Further overload will be too dangerous._

_— Asuka, retreat!_

_— NO_

_— That’s the order! Asuka, I order you to retreat!_

_— NO I WON’T RETREAT I’D RATHER DIE_

10.6

The worst part about the Angel breaking into her head, is that it didn’t feel like anybody else was there. The worst part about the Angel breaking into her head, is that she had to be there alongside it. Incapable of making it stop. Incapable of defining what had happened. She wants to rip that Angel's flesh open with her claws. She’s tired of blurry lines. 

But what else can our Asuka do? She lays in a hospital room for hours, eyes wide open. And, like she’s done her entire life, she wonders: _did that really happen to me?_

10.9

The second she’s able to, she runs. She hides. 

If only Shinji could see her now.

11.

Hikari takes her in with open, if hesitant, arms. Something between them is different, and, in her state, Asuka wonders whether Hikari somehow knows about her. What part, though, Asuka isn’t sure. And then she feels like crying, because, maybe, it would be easier to be a doll, after all, and not have to worry about being phenomenal, not have to worry about flinging herself forward, all while holding herself back. Because she has to hold herself back. Asuka Langley Soryu is a monster in hero’s clothing. She’s more savage than the Angels, more capable of demolition than the Evas. And she hates this world, she’s sick to death of the Earth and how it just keeps fucking turning, when she’s killing herself over and over and over and over for the chance to be the fated axis on which these ungrateful bastards all revolve.

She lays deathly still in Hikari’s bed, nails digging into her hands. She’s always been a ticking time bomb.

“Asuka?” Hikari whispers. She sounds exhausted. 

“Did I wake you up?” 

“No.”

“Sorry. For. . . All of this. I’ll, I’ll go back soon.” Asuka swallows. “I’m disturbing you.”

“You’re not,” Hikari lies. Their backs are to each other, far enough that they’re not touching, but close enough that Asuka can feel her warmth. Her fingers twitch. She wants to reach out. She’s scared it’ll cause the Third Impact, if she does. “What’s on your mind?”

She knows that tone. Hikari’s class rep for a reason. 

Still. It’s nice of her to pretend she cares. 

“I did not win with Eva.” Asuka says, and it all comes spilling out; her defenses were shattered by the Angel, she’s been barely holding it together for fourteen years, let alone the past few days, and Hikari asked. Hikari asked, without Asuka having to beg for it. Although, lying here, avoiding reality, taking up her friend’s space and time and energy, it doesn’t matter anyway. She remembers Shinji’s desperation, and a chill runs down her spine, a creeping realization that, deep down, they are the exact same. There are ways to beg without using any words at all. She remembers a rainbow of words. _Pathetic_. “I lost all my values. Everything I am.”

“Asuka.” 

“Got dirty, my mind has. It’s polluted. What do I do?” Her voice is shaking. “My mind’s been violated.”

“Asuka.” 

“I hate. I really _hate_.” She spits out. Hikari sighs out through her nose, softly. “I hate everything. I hate everybody. I hate myself the most. I don’t care about anything, not anymore. I can’t do anything. I have nothing left to do.”

“I think you may do anything you like.” Hikari says, loftily. Asuka squeezes her eyes shut. What does that mean? What does she like? Hikari shifts closer, and Asuka feels herself, finally, start to cry. “I don’t blame you. I really think you’ve done well.” 

In the end, the bare minimum is what does it. Asuka shoves her face into the side of the pillow, body wracked with sobs. For a long time, Hikari stays still next to her, and the part of Asuka that remains ever vigilant feels both hope and despair that she might be asleep. And then, she feels the bed shift, and a hand steadying her shaking shoulder. Hikari turns her around, so they’re facing each other again. Her face is blank, conflicted, confused. But still kind. Still Hikari. Asuka knows she doesn’t understand her. It’s okay. Asuka wouldn’t want her to, anyway. 

She sniffles. Hikari seems ready to pull her into a hug, before deciding against it. She frowns, looking deep in thought. Then, she pushes Asuka’s copper hair out of the way, tucks it safely behind her ear. Her hand lingers, fitting themselves in the groove between Asuka’s neck and chin. Asuka can’t breathe. Maybe Hikari understands better than she thinks. Maybe Asuka’s the one who never understood anything at all.

“Hikari.” Asuka starts, but she doesn’t know what to say.

“I was reading this magazine,” Hikari says, shrugging embarrassedly. “It says that when boys like you, they’re always looking at your lips. You’re always looking at my lips.”

“I’m not a boy.” Asuka pushes out, harsh in a way she never is with Hikari, who doesn’t seem fazed. It’s a weird thing to say out loud. It’s the truth—it should be the truth—but something about it feels wrong. She isn’t good at being a real girl. Hikari wipes fresh tears from Asuka’s eyes, patient as always. 

“I guess not. But you do like me.”

“I mean, yeah. You’re my friend.”

“You want to—”

“Stop it.”

“You want to kiss me, Asuka.”

“I don’t. I’m not. . . Like that.”

“What are you like?”

“Normal. I’m normal. I want to be _normal_.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at Ikari and Ayanami.” 

“What?” Asuka’s heart skips a beat. 

“You get so jealous of them. You hate seeing them together. So, either, you’re in love with Ikari—”

“I’m going to throw up.”

“Or you have a crush on Ayanami.”

Asuka wonders how long she’s been wanting to get this off her chest. Hikari says it so calmly, albeit a tad painstaking. Like maybe it is normal. Having a crush on a girl. Her chest constricts as she names the pain. She’s never put words to it before, she didn’t want to. So how was she still so obvious? But—

“I don’t even know her.” She whimpers. “How can I have a crush on her when I don’t know the first thing about her?”

“Okay, maybe you don’t have a crush on her. But you want to kiss her.” Hikari rolls her eyes. “It’s _fine_ , Asuka. She’s weird and quiet, but she’s certainly not ugly.”

“I thought I wanted to kiss you.” Asuka shoots back, annoyed. She doesn’t like being told who she is. 

“That too.” 

“Do you want to kiss me?” She means for it to come out hard, but there’s a genuine note that slips in, and it makes her want to curl up under the covers and never speak again. 

“Hm.” Hikari frowns again, considering. She’s certainly close enough to kiss. It takes everything in Asuka not to let her eyes fall down. Especially now that she knows Hikari’s paying attention. “I want us both to be able to sleep well tonight. I’d kiss you for that.”

Asuka tenses.

“No. What? No. You don’t. . . That makes it sound like you have to. You don’t have to. I—I didn’t even ask! This was your idea!” She thinks about Shinji again. How she nearly threw up thinking about how she’d forced herself on him. She is not going to do that to Hikari. 

“Okay, fine. I’m curious, too. I’d never thought about it before, until I noticed you wanted to. I mean, come on, Asuka. If I was ever going to kiss a girl, it would be you.”

“It would?”

“Who else? You’re really sort of my best friend, aren’t you?” Hikari reminds her, and Asuka feels like crying all over again. And then, sort of shy, she adds, “Besides. You already know well enough that you’re beautiful.” 

Hikari lifts her hand slightly, awkwardly cradling Asuka’s face. She leans in a bit, but not all the way. She doesn’t eliminate the choice. 

“The magazine says I have to ask now if I can kiss you.”

“Yes.” She says, too eager, and Hikari breathes out a laugh. Asuka is too bone-tired and on edge to feel embarrassed. 

“I haven’t asked yet, Soryu.”

“Well, get on with it.”

“Good to see you acting more like yourself.” Hikari notes. There’s a beat of bashful silence. “Okay. Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” 

It’s soft, and chaste, and sweet. It tastes like toothpastes, and smells like Hikari’s cotton candy scented sheets. Asuka shakes the entire time. It’s a little sickening. It’s the most precious moment of her entire life. 

After, Hikari falls asleep almost immediately. Asuka looks over her shoulder and out the window, just to make sure—

Everything is the same as it’s always been. No Third Impact. 

Maybe the right wires were cut. Maybe she’s been detonated.

12.

NERV was busy, while she was gone. 

They replaced her, she already knows as much. But what she’s gathered, so far, is that the boy they replaced her with, the Fifth Child, had been an Angel. 

At first, she laughs. Fucking serves them right, for trying to get rid of her in the first place. Then, she wonders whether that Boy Angel is the same as the one who had broken her mind—but, no, this one was the seventeenth Angel. Tabris, is what they call him. And everybody is being so damn secretive about it. She gets why: having an Angel not only infiltrate NERV HQ, but to mistake him for one of the Children? Whoever was responsible for that should be ashamed. She sneers. Asuka Langley Soryu would never make a mistake like that.

For the first time, she’s glad she isn’t being called upon to ride her Eva. Even if it’s not the same one, an Angel is an Angel, and one of them touched her Unit-02. Asuka doesn’t need another reason to feel dirtier. 

When she waltzes back into Misato’s apartment, she’s expecting a big reaction. Surprise, anger, maybe even relief and joy. 

What she gets is Shinji, locked up in his room, and Misato sitting at the table by the phone, looking lost and younger than Asuka’s ever seen her. Still. She can’t act too changed, or Misato will be suspicious, so she folds her arms and raises her eyebrow, clearing her throat with vigor. Misato jumps a bit, eyes refocusing and landing on Asuka. She falters for a sec, brow furrowed, before piecing it all together. 

“You’re back. That’s good. We were worried.” Misato says, smiling tiredly. Asuka’s unsure whether the slurring she hears is imagined or not. “Everything okay?”

“Is everything okay?” Asuka echoes, dry. “I got mind raped by an Angel.”

“Right,” Misato says, absently. She blinks, shakes her head. “Sorry—sorry, you caught me at a weird time. It’s been sort of fucking batshit, lately.”

Asuka pouts. She’d really been wanting more attention than this. But she dutifully walks up to the table anyway, settling down. Hikari had kissed her again, before she left. She can still feel her chapstick on her lips. It’s okay if they don’t fawn over her for a bit—so long as they fawn over her later. Besides, she can’t say she isn’t deathly intrigued by it all. 

“I’ve heard. Something about a rogue Angel?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“That’s a little embarrassing for you guys, don’t cha think? Where’s Stupid Shinji?”

Misato nods over to Shinji’s door, and her eyes linger for a second or two before they fall onto the last of her beer. Asuka’s lips curl as she watches her drink it. What the hell’s wrong with everybody?

“This sucks. Why’d I come back anyway? You're all shitty company.” She stands, making as much noise as possible. “I’m going to go talk to him—”

“No.” Misato says, finally alert. “I don’t think that’s for the best right now.”

Asuka pauses. Her heart stutters.

“Did. . . Did the Angel do something to him? Like. . The other one did to me?” 

“What? Oh—oh, _God_ , no.” Misato shakes her head emphatically, and Asuka feels relief flood her body. In the back of her head, the feeling registers—she cares about Shinji. She wants him to be safe. Even if she kind of wants to kill him, sometimes. She doesn’t want anyone else to. It makes her feel normal to acknowledge that. 

“What’s wrong with him, then?”

“He’s. . . Grieving.”

“Grieving? Who? Who died?”

“The seventeenth.”

“The Angel? He’s grieving the fucking Angel?” Asuka barks, incredulous. “You’re joking—”

“Shinji’s the one who had to kill him.”

“Okay? Shinji’s killed Angels before. We all have. It’s in the job description.” Asuka points out, although she sees where this is going; Tabris posed as the Fifth Child, which means he used a human body. Shinji had to kill _that._ She remembers his reactions to his Eva unit crushing Toji, and involuntarily flinches. 

“He needs space.” Misato shrugs, forehead leaning precariously on her wrist. “Or maybe he doesn’t. Hell if I know what any of you need.”

“Yeah,” Asuka says, clipped, disdainful, and Misato closes her eyes. This homecoming is a fucking bust. “You can say that again.”

12.5

Later that night, she slips into Shinji’s room. Half because she’s scared of falling asleep, half because the walls are thin, and she can hear him crying. 

She settles down in his bed, and tucks the blanket up to her chin. Shinji is curled in on himself, clutching his knees to his chest, bawling, his back to her. The scene is ironically very similar to the one in Hikari’s bedroom the night before. But having been through that, Asuka feels better equipped to handle whatever this is. 

“Psst. Hey. Idiot Shinji.” She whispers, and Shinji’s sobs slowly quiet. 

“Asuka,” he says, watery, reverent. “You’re back. You’re okay.”

“Yeah, yeah, spare me the lovefest. Or, at least, turn around so I don’t have to stare at a ratty t-shirt while I’m talking to you. That’s really rude, you know.”

Shinji obeys, twisting to face her. She inhales, sharply. His eyes are all puffed up from crying. His face is coated in dried tears and snot. Asuka wrinkles her nose on principle.

“You look awful.” She says, even as an invisible force field of protection extends from her to swallow Shinji whole. He doesn’t even crack a smile, not that he ever would have. But he doesn’t seem displeased to see her, which is something. “What’s wrong with you?”

Shinji lowers his eyes. Shame. It hits Asuka in a too-familiar way. 

“I had to kill him. I had to—I had to _kill him_ , Asuka.”

“Well, of course you did. Tabris was an Angel, what else were you supposed to—”

“K-Kaworu.” 

“What?”

“His name was Kaworu,” Shinji says, shakily, gripping onto the sheets like a lifeline. He won’t meet her eyes, but he doesn’t have to. His face is cracked open, raw in a way she’s never seen replicated on anything but her bathroom mirror. And, just like that, Asuka understands. “Kaworu Nagisa. He loved the water, and, and philosophy. And classical music.”

“Ew. He sounds like an old man. That’s so boring.”

“No, it’s not!” Shinji pushes, eyebrows knitting together in mild anger and determination. Asuka feels more grounded, knowing she can still bring out the real Shinji, even now, when she doesn’t quite recognize the cover. “It’s. . . It’s beautiful.”

“Ugh. Of course you have terrible taste. Cherry on top of the Shinji Ikari ice cream.”

“Shut up, Asuka! I’m serious!” Shinji bolts up, reaching over to grab his cassette player. He settles back down, passing her the left earbud, and taking the right for his own. Asuka makes a show of it, groaning and sighing, but she puts it on anyway. Shinji fiddles with the buttons for a bit, and then a triumphant cacophony of instruments starts to flow into her ear. She squints, trying to feel through the music who exactly this boy was.

“What is this?”

“ _Ode to Joy_.” Shinji answers, softer than she’s ever heard him. He’s closed his eyes, and there’s a tear ready to fall from his eyelashes soon. “It’s—he—”

Abruptly, Shinji stops the music. He squeezes his eyes shut harder. _Stupid Shinji. I won’t get a sense for the song if you just turn it off like that._

“He was human. He wasn’t—he wasn’t, I know—but he looked human. He felt human. He talked like—Well, actually,” and to Asuka’s absolute amazement, Shinji Ikari cracks a small smile, “Okay, fine, he didn’t really talk like a human. He talked and acted a little off, I guess. But he was very nice to me. And he cared. And he wanted me to live.”

“Was this before or after he attacked humanity and you were forced to murder him to save us all?”

“You’re wrong. He asked me to kill him.”

“. . . He did?”

“He asked me. He practically begged. He seemed so happy, before, but looking back, I think that was an act. I think he knew what it would all come down to. But he wanted to make me smile. He told me—” Shinji hesitated, then seemed to gain resolve. “He told me he loved me.”

Asuka’s eyebrows shot up.

“Are you kidding? I was gone for, what? Two days? And a fucking Angel fell in love with you?”

“Jealous?” Shinji opens his eyes, sporting the barest hints of a smirk. Well, then. They were both full of surprises, maybe. 

“That’s disgusting. Besides, who’s to say I wasn’t getting my own action?”

“Weren’t you with Class Rep?” 

Asuka feels her face flush a bit, but she refuses to break the stare first. Shinji frowns, confused, before it hits him, and his features slacken. 

“Wh. . . _Oh._ ” 

They don’t say anything for a few seconds, and then the two burst into raucous laughter, shoving their knuckles and pillows into their mouths to keep from waking Misato or PenPen up. Every time they have it under control, they look at each other again, and it starts all over. 

“I cannot believe,” Asuka said, in between gulps of breath, “That while I was kissing Hikari, you were kissing an _Angel_.”

“Wait! You kissed her?”

“Technically, she kissed me.” Asuka bragged. Details. . . Weren’t important. 

“Okay, good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. That means you’re gayer.”

“ _What?”_ Asuka said, in what was possibly the shrillest whisper in the history of mankind. “You’re—you—look at you! You’re a hate crime waiting to happen!”

“Fuck off!” Shinji sniped. “I barely count. Kaworu and I never even kissed.”

“You were telling each other you were in love and you’d never even kissed?” Asuka cackled. “That’s pathetic!”

“Okay, first off, we held hands in the shower—”

“In the _what?”_

“. . . N-Nevermind—”

“No, no, go back to that one. I wanna hear that one.”

“No,” Shinji pressed, sobering. “What I was trying to say is. . . I never even said it back.”

“Huh?”

“He told me he loved me. I didn’t say it back.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” He says, quiet, lower lip wobbling dangerously again. “Yes, I loved him.”

She wants to point out that it was just a day. That Shinji was entranced by a freak of nature who gave him the attention he craved. That they were doomed from the start. That it couldn't have been love, because that's not how love works. But neither of them know how love works. And none of those are good enough arguments. Besides, Asuka is falling asleep, and there’s a warmth in her chest that she has never felt, ever, and she’ll be damned if she loses it before slipping into the realm of dreams. 

“Stupid Shinji.” She mumbles, fonder than she thinks she’ll ever let herself be again.

“Shut up, Asuka.”

“I hate you, you know?”

“Shut _up_ , Asuka.”

“You suck. Just the worst.”

“Mhm. Goodnight.”

“'Night.”

Asuka presses play on the tape recorder. All either of them hear, before going under, is the victorious persistence of _Ode to Joy._ Despite everything, an ode to joy.

**Author's Note:**

> I just think Asuka Langley Soryu
> 
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